


Where I want us to be

by flowerdeluce



Category: Heat (1995)
Genre: Drug Use, Extra Treat, First Kiss, Frisking, Frottage, M/M, Missing Scene, Resolved Sexual Tension, Trick or Treat 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: McCauley’s no coward; he won’t escape the diner during this break in conversation. He’s too stubborn for that. Too much like looking in a fucking mirror.





	Where I want us to be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturni_stellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/gifts).



> This is tagged Missing Scene because _technically_ it could’ve happened – we don’t see how the diner scene ends! 
> 
> Talking of tags, Hanna takes cocaine in this fic. According to Pacino, Hanna's (off-screen) coke habit was the reason behind his erratic outbursts. Thanks Saturni_Stellis for pointing that out in your prompts; I hope you enjoy this story and had a great Trick or Treat 2018!
> 
> (Apologies for any Briticisms!)

His hand trembles while he portions the powder onto the bathroom tiles. Always does when he needs precision, like it knows what’s coming.

The meeting isn’t going as planned. He’s a cop, and a fucking good one at that, and McCauley’s nothing but a slime ball—it’s easy to see who’s the better man here. But the bastard’s laying himself bare, and that raw honesty on a face hiding nothing, bold, unafraid to be known, it’s… getting to him. He should see through it. Just how many hardened criminals has he broken down over the years? McCauley’s a professional, but he isn’t unshakable. There must be _something_ he can latch on to or this whole thing’s been a waste of time.

Coke makes him see clearer and, hopefully, it’ll stop him running his mouth like a lonely old man chewing a bartender’s ear off. The line looks luminous white beside the browning grout, not too thick or too thin, but enough to get him back on top out there where McCauley’s waiting.

McCauley’s no coward; he won’t escape the diner during this break in conversation. He’s too stubborn for that. Too much like looking in a fucking mirror. Nah. He’ll be there.

Vincent glances at his reflection, rolling a twenty between his fingers. It takes the shape with ease because it’s done it before. He hadn’t planned on doing a line, now of all times and here of all places, but the opportunity arose and he’s not one for denying himself what he wants.

The rocks hit his sinuses in an icy blast that turns to static in his brain, then behind his eyes, slithering into his temples until he feels _right_ again. He’s still in the clutches of coming up when the sink hit his knees, a dislocated sensation almost happening to someone else—maybe he’s fallen. Maybe he should open his eyes. A pressure at his waist spins him in a blur of colour that finally settles on the bathroom’s dull palette of grey and blue, straight lines and metallic edges, and Neil McCauley. 

“What’re you doing?”

Despite the question echoing in Vincent’s head, he’s not compelled to answer immediately. If he were asking, he’d furnish it with more words and a hell of a lot more volume.

“I asked you a question.”

McCauley’s tone, low and concise, grounds Vincent. Swallowing the familiar, foul taste that's gathered in the back of his throat, he focuses on the other man’s face: dark eyes, a greying goatee that'd better suit a guy half his age, and the kind of expression that could wilt an entire flowerbed. And McCauley’s hands are still on his waist.

“What do people normally do in bathrooms?” Vincent asks, smug. If he weren’t high, he'd be nervous—face to face in a confined space with a guy who’s probably packing, who’s just confessed he’s not adverse to blowing his brains out if he has to—but he _is_ high, so while aware of the dangers, he honestly doesn’t give a shit right now.

“Never had you pegged as a junkie.” God, McCauley looks disappointed. Like he’s so high and mighty.  

“We all have our vices.” He uses the same line on Justine.

McCauley’s expression barely changes, but Vincent feels a shift like the atmosphere condensing before a thunderstorm—he’s angry. He doesn’t know why, but it’s good, he can use it. That train of thought evaporates the instant McCauley shoves him back, lifting him until he’s balanced on the edge of the sink unit, as unstable as he feels.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.” McCauley’s voice is no darker than it was between sips of coffee. Plucking Vincent’s folded coke wrapper from the side, he tosses it into the trash. It skitters down through the bundled paper towels and disappears. “That out there—” he waves towards the door “—was mutual respect. For that to continue I need you sharp.”

If he’s expecting him to stop sticking stuff up his nose he should compare notes with his wife: it ain’t happening.

“Don’t touch my fucking property!” The wrapper doesn’t bother him—it was only dregs, after all—it’s the principle of the thing. McCauley crowds him when he tries to get down, thighs pressing against his knees.

“You done?” He blinks slow, places a hand on Vincent’s arm and settles it back beside him. “Or are you gonna make a scene?” There’s something reassuring and mildly fascinating about his tone and how little he seems to care about their proximity.

“No.” Of course his fucking voice breaks. At least the tremor’s gone. “But I might arrest you.”

McCauley opens Vincent’s jacket and folds the fabric back with enough confidence even a stranger wouldn’t object. “On what grounds?” Slipping two fingers into the inside breast pocket, he slides out Vincent’s gum and inspects it briefly before returning it.

“Assaulting an officer.”

McCauley’s knuckles brush Vincent’s chest, over his shirt pocket. He knows the bulge is his badge and doesn’t touch it; he probably knows everything about him already.

“I’m not gonna assault you,” he says coolly. No. He’ll just rifle through his pockets like he’s been caught lifting candy bars. “But I’d like to know what I’m up against.”

As McCauley’s hand slips beneath his jacket, Vincent holds his breath and leans back. It’s strange, being close enough to make out the wrinkles around his eyes; McCauley’s face has always been on a grainy monitor or a long-distance photograph, never so close he can smell his hair, feel his body heat creep into his personal space. He doesn’t notice McCauley’s hand push inside his pants pocket until it’s all the way in.

His notebook is LAPD property but McCauley flicks through regardless, too fast to read anything, but it makes a statement, as does Vincent’s letting him—he’s got nothing to hide. McCauley takes his time with his wallet, eyeing Lauren’s photo before checking the compartments for more of what he’d thrown in the trash. He finds none.

Their eyes lock as McCauley feels beneath the opposite lapel, the side of his shoulder holster. The gun’s loaded. Fuck, is the safety even on? Vincent swallows as McCauley’s hand slides over the casing, fingertips brushing the leather strap. McCauley’s eyes say _trust me_ , so he does.

His right pants pocket is empty—his radio and cuffs are in his car—and that, Vincent thinks, will put an end to this. But McCauley’s not done. His hand lingers on Vincent’s hip and Vincent wonders if he’s considering the gun. He tenses, readying himself to counter an assault from this position, sobering up a little. McCauley’s hand slides to his thigh, palm flat and gripping slightly, his expression the same as always: reading everything and giving nothing away. His thumb twitches, gaze flickering down to where he’s touching him.

Is he asking for something else, or is that the coke thinking? The thought sends a flash of heat up Vincent’s spine. Is this… a test?

The tension falls from his shoulders when McCauley’s hand finally moves away. It glides over his knee, then lower. McCauley bends, feeling along his shin for concealed weapons. He finds the blade at his ankle and raises an eyebrow.

“Good to know,” he says, leaving it where it is. When he’s standing again, he asks: “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I could still arrest you,” Vincent says quickly, like he’s unaffected.

“Give me a good reason and I’ll march down to the station with you right now.”

He knows he’s got nothing.

“Possession of an illegal firearm,” Vincent dares. Even if he has got one on him, he’s not going to arrest him for it. He’d like to know, though.

McCauley laughs. “You see a weapon on me?”

Without asking permission, Vincent reaches for McCauley’s jacket. Doing as he had, he folds the material back confidently and pats down the inside pocket. It’s empty.

“Raise your arms.”

Smirking, McCauley obeys, allowing an underarm search. Vincent’s regulation about it, patting and stroking McCauley’s chest, waist and stomach with the same pressure he’d use while frisking a suspect. He needs to spread his legs a little to reach around to McCauley's shoulder blades and they both seem to realise it at the same moment, as McCauley shuffles forwards and settles between his thighs: this position makes Vincent even more vulnerable. Somehow, the sudden intimacy of the position doesn’t feel unnatural.

He continues, patting down McCauley’s back and along the line of his belt, the leather body-warm, then down over the swell of his ass. McCauley sucks in a breath at the unexpected touch and Vincent grins.

“Arms down,” he murmurs, palming McCauley’s biceps as they lower.

At the cuff of McCauley’s jacket, Vincent slides a thumb under the sleeve. Crooks always think they’re so clever by hiding something beneath the strap of their watch, but McCauley’s clean. He circles two fingers around his wrist regardless, eliciting another sharp inhale from him. It’s satisfying, being responsible for that tiny chink in McCauley’s armour.

As Vincent turns his attention to the other wrist, McCauley places the hand he’s done with on the tile beside him, leaning in with it. Leaning in _close_. Their temples brush when McCauley turns to watch Vincent’s inspection and his breath pools hot against his neck. Suddenly, Vincent can’t move. All he can do is keep still, breathing air warmed by McCauley’s mouth, wondering how they ended up like this and why pulling away seems impossible.

“You gonna keep chasing me?” McCauley asks. His voice is dark, close; Vincent almost tastes it.

“If you keep giving me reason to.” He wets his lips with his tongue and releases McCauley’s wrist. Unsurprisingly, his hand ends up on the tile beside him, boxing him in.

“I won’t stop,” McCauley warns. It’s almost a threat. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” 

He feels McCauley’s stare as he runs a hand down his inner thigh, as low as he can reach, then as high as he dares, and he didn’t get to his position being a coward. His knuckles brush the weight of McCauley’s package before he pulls away, satisfied.

Vincent stiffens when McCauley’s hand braces his neck. He darts a look at him, which is difficult given how close they are, and waits for whatever’s going to happen to happen. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move until McCauley does, because the man’s fucking mesmerising and he’d follow him anywhere just to see what he’d do. But if he’s just going to stand there scanning his face and not make a move he’ll be disappointed, so he might as well…

The surprised sound McCauley makes when Vincent’s tongue nudges his lip goes straight to his dick. McCauley's grip tightens at his neck, tugging him close as his mouth presses in hard, opens, tongues Vincent’s lips apart effortlessly. Grasping his jacket into both fists, Vincent arches up and is pleasantly reminded that McCauley’s hips are between his thighs. Their groins touch and they both gasp at the electric contact. McCauley’s fingers cradle his head, lacing through his hair while his thumb brushes his cheekbone. It’s too tender for a guy like him. Vincent nips his lip, encouraging the roughness he expects, but McCauley only groans. He’s never kissed a guy before. Never been this obsessed with one either. It feels right, somehow, like it was only a matter of time before this happened one way or another. They’ve always had a connection. Now they share a secret. It’ll hurt all the more when he has to take him down.

The kiss mirrors their conversation: they take turns taking control. It’s steady, exploratory, intoxicating. McCauley’s firm with him, kisses deeply, but his tongue slides so softly against Vincent’s and his fingertips knead gentle circles into his scalp and it’s driving him wild, getting him hard, building an energy inside him that can’t be released with a kiss alone. Clawing at McCauley’s hips, he hooks his fingers through his belt loops and tugs him closer, their bodies pressing from chest to groin.

McCauley’s harder than he is. He demonstrates just how much by grinding forward, once. It forces a pathetically loud gasp from Vincent’s throat, has him spreading his legs wider, almost wrapping them around him as he pulls him in again, because he needs the rush, the dizzying thrill of McCauley’s dick rubbing against his. McCauley gets the message and starts rutting against him with a steady rhythm, leaving Vincent whining from the pleasure of it. He must look (and sound) desperate, but who cares? McCauley’s just as guilty. The slow bucks of his hips—almost lazy in their speed—seem instinctual, demonstrating, maybe, just how leisurely he’d fuck him if he got the chance. McCauley wants him bad. Real bad. Coming to his senses, Vincent realises if they don’t stop this now, McCauley might get him.

Pulling back, he keeps his eyes closed, dragging the moment out as long as he can. When he opens them, McCauley’s expression is frustratingly calm. They share a look of understanding before McCauley’s gaze rakes his face, lingering on his wet lips before meeting his eyes again. Slowly, his hand leaves Vincent’s hair, sliding down his nape before returning to his side. Led by the action, Vincent lets go of him too and they part.

“So,” McCauley says, mouth twitching into a one-sided smile, “am I free to go, Lieutenant?” His eyes reveal he enjoyed that wording.

Vincent can only blink up at him, struck dumb, head spinning and dick heavy. The kiss had been like coming up all over again, only better because the high was natural. He doesn’t want to come down yet but admitting it would turn this encounter into something else, something he’s not sure can handle right now. Or ever.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, can’t believe he’s saying it.

McCauley takes him in again, his relaxed head-to-toe stare like fire on Vincent’s skin. He nods once, then he’s gone. The door swings on its hinges, settles, and the bathroom is silent again.

Vincent stays put, waiting for his heart rate to get somewhere close to normal. He wipes his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

Did any of that happen or is he just so high his subconscious decided to fry his brain in the most inconvenient fucking way? Nah. It happened. He’ll pretend it didn’t, to the station, to Justine, hell even to himself in a few hours probably, but it happened.

His legs are like jello when he clambers down from the sink and fuck his reflection looks like shit.

As he sweeps his hair into place he remembers—his coke’s gone. It’s not worth digging it out of the trash; there’s more at home. There’s some in his desk at the station too.

Walking back out into the diner, he eyes where they’d both sat. McCauley’s coffee cup sits on a twenty, and the waitress is about to clear the table. He’s gone. Naturally. Like he said: they might never see each other again. Vincent loses himself a moment, staring at McCauley's vacant seat. So, back to square one.

Popping gum, he strides through the main doors. A small part of him is disappointed to find McCauley’s car gone, but a bigger part is glad. Because he moves when McCauley moves, and the chase is back on.


End file.
